How to open doors with just a smile"
So sang The Eagles on their 70s hit, "Lyin' Eyes."
It pains me to say this, but, once again, lovers of classic American soft-rock have been blatantly lied to by one of their most cherished sources of easy-listening advice.
I've always been skeptical of this assertion by The Eagles, but I refrained from calling them out on it, because my views seemed at odds with those held by powerful industry insiders and their highly-paid cabal of pony-tailed entertainment lawyers and a virtual army of "so-called-experts."
For years, as I was contiually and relentlessly subjected to this song's mendacious message, I valiantly maintained my sanity through tantric sex, breathing exercises, and heroically pointing out the lie to various opinionmakers in the media.
Sadly, I was a lone wolf howling on a hilltop under a sunless night sky. Not once did anyone in the media ever even mention me or the lie I was trying my darnedest to expose.
I learned a number of things that may contradict what the average American assumes to be true. Here are just some of the key whoppers my investigation uncovered:
- Most Americans think the recording industry is all about nice people making nice music for other nice people. (It isn't. The music business has its share of major dick-wads. That's all I'm going to say about this for now, but, believe me, I heard some stories that were real eye-openers for me. Drugs! In rock music!)
- Most Americans think the eagle and the dolphin are friends. (They're not. They're mortal enemies. I have a Chinese sculptural object, made entirely of asian plastic, that proves this, conclusively.)
- Most Americans are in desperate need cranial-rectal-inversion surgery. (They don't.) (With a quart of name brand olive oil, a pair of Rubbermaid Cafeteria-Sized Salad Tongs, and the assistance of a trusted, reasonably-focused friend -- anyone with a head that is normal-size or smaller, should be able to survive this cheap and relatively simple procedure in the comfort of his or her own home; without the embarrassing trauma of being forced to wear those perverted, pathetically ridiculous hospital gowns while strangers stand their making light-hearted jokes to one another while probing around in your butt.)
- Most Americans think the music business is owned by corporations, which in turn are owned by average investors, like you and your neighbors. (It's not. Who does run it? Well, keep reading and I think you just might be able to figure it out. I'm not going to spell it out for you, but I'll give you a couple of subtle clues.
People do tend to get spooked by this topic, so I'll try to put it as delicately as possible. The music industry is a "family" business. There are lots of "Sopranos" who have made it big. It employs lots of "hit men." When a song becomes popular, people "mob" the record stores to buy it.
What does this mean for an investigative blogger?
I'll tell you what it means.
It means that where ever I went to get answers to my questions,these Italian sausage-sucking goombah ginnies had already rammed their greasy message down everyone's throats, ordering them not to talk to bloggers. They explicitly told these potential question answerers that they didn't want anyone helping out a blogger who was just trying to "piss on their pasta."
I couldn't figure out why they thought I'd do such a thing. Why would anybody do such a thing?
Later, some well-meaning soul took pity on my plight and explained that this was the mob's way of indicating that they were serious about protecting this particular revenue stream. Apparently, this stream was a lucrative one. It included some of the world's most commercially viable musical acts, including top-selling soft rock bands, like The Eagles. And they wanted to make certain that no one said anything that might in some way pollute the stream and cause harm to the ecological subsystem that thrived within it.
If I understood the explanation correctly, it was a shocker. Pissing in pasta sauce could be lethal to humans.
The corporate entertainment media understood the message in a completely different, and to my mind, simple-minded context. They thought the message was "don't talk to investigative bloggers about The Eagles. PERIOD.
The music magazines refused to even mention the "Lyin' Lies" scandal. The publishers of these magazines seemed to be saying that they favored the advertising revenue they received from recording companies owned by the mob, over a story that might intrigue their readers about lies that were told in a 35 year old song by The Eagles.
I know. It's hard to believe, isn't it? The media was putting dollars before sense!
Everyone in the media was afraid of the story. Everyone except me.
I'm a blogger, damn it! Money does NOT factor into where or when or who or what I choose to gently probe.
To me, it's all meat for the gristle.
So, for the past three years or so I started putting the pieces of several different puzzles together.
I was surprised that everyone else was so afraid. I was out there asking questions, knocking on doorbells, slipping dolls mickies, you name it. And I never heard a peep from the mob.
Sure, there were dead fish being delivered to me on a daily basis, along with my morning paper-- and, on two seperate occasions, I awoke to find a severed dolphin head laying on the pillow next to mine. (Even out of water, it looked so gentle -- staring at me with big, sad, and, sadly, dead, eyes. Absolutely adorable. Especially the first one. You never do forget your first one, do you? The second was lovely, too, in its own way.)
Eventually I learned why I was receiving so many unordered seafood products.
(No, it wasn't kids from the local college out playing some harmless pranks, as I had, at first first, suspected. I suppose a belated apology to the college is now in order for that series of unexplained frat house burnings. Mistakes, admittedly, were made.)
Granted, I should have interpreted the meaning sooner, but, keep in mind, the frat guys were so prankish (even waggish, at times) in their general demeanor, I can easily understand why I didn't understand why I might be a targeted for daily sea creature carcass dumps.
It was only when I acquired the Chinese sculpture (for only $12.99 at Goodwill, and it was unused!) that the pieces fell into place.
I knew, at last, what it was that my enemy was trying to tell me: Lay off the Lyin Lies blog.
The soft-rock-mobsters had finally managed to deliver its message to me, but they would soon learn that they had picked the wrong guy to try to "muscle" into silence.
The only things of which I have even the slightest fear are: drunken or jittery clowns, being stared at by young republicans, family reunions, and hobo encampments.
The only thing that really scares me is a combination involving all of the above simulataneously.
Did the mob frighten me? Not in the slightest.
Maybe it comes from an inbred form of self-confidence that I learned from my moms and my dads and my uncles and my aunts at the TOS compound. (Family owned and operated for generations. No outsiders allowed.)
I've always firmly believed that any large group of angry bloodthirsty villagers, even those who come armed with torches and pitchforks, can be persuaded to see reason if one is capable of speaking to them calmly and reasonably. (If the speaker also possessed matinee idol good looks and possessed a deep voice with a rich tonal quality, the task was even easier. )
I know from first hand experiences that such speeches work -- especially when the majority of the mob is made up of half-wits, goofballs, and imbeciles. (Well, to clarify, I'll say that such speeches always succeeded in getting us to leave whichever village we had angrily amassed in. I vividly recall us standing there shoulder to shoulder, pitchforks and torches in hand. We'd always be jeering loudly at first, but then we'd settle down. Even the men folk had a tough time not starin' at the speaker's rugged good looks. And them words he was sayin'...so purdy the way he said 'em...and, before long, we'd all be group-thinkin' that the fella was makin' more than just a lick of sense. By the end, there was no doubt we'd be headin' back to the compound. The return was always quiet. We'd be thinkin', wearin' sheepish expressions, scratchin' our heads and wonderin' what it was we was all so riled up about.)
Possessing, as I did, an insider's view of the mob, I had to chuckle whenever I thought of all those people who truly fear mobsters. If they only knew the real story!
Still, it is one thing to make the accusation that the Lyin' Eyes lyrics are lies, it is another thing entirely to convince the general soft rock listening public that your accusations are true.
Soft rock listeners are a notoriously skeptical bunch. I'm not suggesting that they won't listen, because they will. They'll listen to anything, over and over and over. Even the same thing. If it's innocuous, they'll listen. The problem is getting them to pay attention.
To get their attention, I'd need something sparkly.
I'd have to blind them with science.
Scientific evidence.
Over the course of the past year and a half, I conducted interviews with 893 city-dwelling women, ages 18 to 83, and now, for the first time ever, I can conclusively assert, without fear of contradiction, that:
The Eagles are liars.
Fabricators.
Prevaricators.
Not one woman, out of the 893 interviewed, had ever opened a door with just a smile.
All but 13 of them denied ever trying to put their lips anywhere near a door knob.
In response to my gentle urgings, seven of the more drunken and slutty interviewees agreed to try to open door knobs with their mouths, but only three were able to do so, and none of them could do it while smiling and turning the knob at the same time.
In the appendix, I've recorded the makes of door knobs used in these experiments. A copy of the videotaped footage is being stored in the National Archives of the Library of Congress.
The original masters are NOT located under my bed.
As this investigative blog goes to press, I'm negotiating* with several science journals regarding the amount they're willing to bid for the rights to publish my findings.
When those details are nailed down, I'll probably be forced to give interviews to various prize committees, etc.
After all that, I'm not about to rest. Where ever there's a soft rock lyrical lie, I'll be be laying in wait.
* In the interests of accuracy, I should clarify that when I say, "negotiating," I mean: "waiting for responses from."
For those of you unfamiliar with the rather genteel machinations of the publishing world, this long lag time between the the submission of the article and its publication in the journal itself can be surprisingly lengthy.
It is like returning to the 19th century.
That these scientific journals still manage to survive is amazing, particularly, since they are inevitably attract to their editorial staffs: the worst and the dimmest.
Lazy cunts who think that their publishing mission is to spend the day playing grab-ass with one another, rather than reviewing submissions that could alter the way the people of the world think about one our most cherished soft rock classics.
Is it any wonder that these dead-tree are gasping, sweating, and stumbling around? They're not dead, yet. But the "funny smell" is slowly but surely amassing into stench status with a steroids kicker.
If I don't hear back from any of these scientific journals fairly soon, I have a hunch that they'll soon be feeling the white, hot laser of this blog's scrutinous eyeball beaming upon them like a powerful flashlight.
Not out of retribution, but out of evotribution.
We'll then see if they're fit enough to survive the onslaught of scrutiny.
Keep in mind, up until now, I have had nothing but the utmost respect for the science world in general, and individual scientists, specifically. I'd been operating under the assumption that the flow of respect was two directional in nature, but perhaps I've been misguided.
That would be easy, seeing how all science journal editors are nothing but sniveling sphincter-lickers and bald-faced liars!
I hope I haven't ruffled any feathers.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
No comments:
Post a Comment